


the (love) letter of the law

by youremyqueen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, F/F, Femslash, Gift Fic, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Prohibition, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:24:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youremyqueen/pseuds/youremyqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa breaks rules these days. Sansa's bobbed her hair and bought dresses that fall above her knees and shoes with heels too high by miles. (1920's!AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the (love) letter of the law

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firstaudrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstaudrina/gifts).



Sansa breaks rules these days. Sansa's bobbed her hair and bought dresses that fall above her knees and shoes with heels too high by miles. Sansa waits for the lights in the city to go low, then waits for the rocks to hit her window. They always do.

Margaery smiles up with her lipstick mouth, and she looks like a picture, even standing in the alley, shivering in her fur wrap at the bottom of Sansa's fire escape. Margaery's the reason that Sansa had bobbed her hair, and bought those dresses and those shoes. Margaery had decided she was gonna be a flapper, and Sansa does whatever Margaery does, because doing anything else seems pointless. Sansa breaks rules because Margaery breaks rules. Sometimes they even break laws.

She takes deep breaths and then hurries down the side of the building in just her stockings, heels clutched tight in her painted fingernails and her other hand scrambling on the cool metal. She still thrills after all this time, all these late nights running to parties and dancing wild in ways that Sansa's mother would never approve of.

Margaery's hand slips into hers easily, and Sansa thrills even more than that. "There you are, old girl," she says, in her laughing voice, and she smells like gin already, sharp and secret, like low-lit rooms and smooth jazz. 

She kisses Sansa on the cheek, like she always does - says it's something they do in Paris, and Sansa's never been to Paris, so she believes her. Would let her do it even if she didn't, probably.

They run through the rain-slicked streets, holding their hats down and laughing, and the old birds call unflattering names after them, but that only makes them laugh louder. They hail a cab downtown, and Margaery leans her head on Sansa's shoulder through the whole ride, talking about Paris, talking about all the places they're gonna go one day, and holding her cigarette out the window. The cabbie leers at them and calls Sansa "doll" in a way she doesn't like - it's not at all the same as when Margaery says it - but Margaery just laughs that bright laugh and points up her nose up at him.

"Sorry, pal, bank's closed." Her arm hooks around Sansa easy-like, and they run giggling to the door of tonight's joint - a sketchy looking place, but Margaery swears it's on the level - where they flutter their eyes at the doorman and whisper the password. Margaery's voice is smoky like it is when she's trying to seem older and the sound of it makes Sansa's head spin before she even gets a drink.

Bobbed hair and high heels and late nights are all frowned upon, but drinking is illegal and that's why it's Margaery's favorite thing to do. She puts away glass after glass, and Sansa only has a little before she's unsteady on her feet, but either way, they end the night the way they always end nights, twirling through crowds and falling together in dark, close corners where Margaery's fingers dance up and down Sansa's skin. They get lipstick all over each other's mouths and jaws, but they wear the same shade of dark red, so it hardly matters.

Sansa's knees buckle and she feels like a renegade, like a criminal, and it swirls in her head and tingles to her toes. She's goofy for Margaery, she knows, but she's not sure how Margaery feels about anything - except Paris, she _loves_ Paris - so she just follows her through dance steps and laughs when she laughs and does whatever she tells her to.

She likes the late nights and the broken rules and laws and promises, but if Margaery decides one day to grow her hair out and dress like an old maid, Sansa's sure she wouldn't be able to help but do the same. That's just how it is with them.

At the end of the night, Margaery drops her off at her swanky apartment, blowing a kiss, and calling, "Same time tomorrow, baby?"

Sansa smiles wide back at her from halfway up the fire escape. "You got it," she calls, and throws her shoes up through the window ahead of her.


End file.
